Welcome To Hell
by SpobyFicStalker
Summary: "She knows full well that she's about to confess to something illegal, and she wonders: is she being unfair to him? Is this one of those things that he would prefer she didn't tell him because it forces him into a position where he feels he's always letting someone down?" Spencer and Toby. Deals with the events of 6x05 and is quite obviously wishful thinking for the future. Oneshot


A/N: So apparently the idea that Spencer and Toby sext each other made me want to write? What can I say; I have a dirty mind. LOL. That being said, when I first wrote this I hated it. I was convinced I'd never post it because it was just that terrible, so I left it on my laptop and didn't look at it for a week. But when I reread it yesterday it actually wasn't as bad as I thought? I don't even know anymore. Sometimes it's hard to tell if it's my own writing that I'm frustrated with or the material that the show gives me to work with. Another reason I debated posting it is because something tells me the next two episodes are going to discredit it anyway. I hate when that happens but at this point I'm in the "whatever" stage. Hopefully it brings you guys some entertainment. If not, my profound apologies.

Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to review, not just my last story but a few of my older ones since they seem to have picked up again recently as well. I cherish each and every one of you. You make me want to keep doing this when I doubt myself. So thank you!

* * *

 **Welcome To Hell**

 _"We all get addicted to something that takes away the pain." – Unknown_

She waits.

It's past midnight, she has school tomorrow and it would probably make a lot more sense to go to bed and attempt to get at least a few hours of sleep before sunrise. But she can't. She has to see him. Just one glimpse of him in the flesh – of his soft eyes and gentle smile, of his broad shoulders and strong, masculine arms. As much as she hates when he leaves, she equally loves when he returns. It almost makes it worth it. Almost.

She thinks back to almost a week ago when she said goodbye to him outside the gate of her house. For once, she felt like the one in control. He seemed on the verge of tears as he apologized one last time for being unable to push this additional field training session in Harrisburg back a few weeks. He looked distraught, and when he pushed his fingers through his hair in frustration she saw that they were trembling slightly. And oddly enough, it had calmed her.

They have been apart so many times before, and he had always handled it so much better than she had – or that's how it had always felt to her, anyway. He would hug her close when they said their goodbyes, his eyes pained as he watched her struggle to prepare to let him go. The impression that he was so composed had made her feel irrational and clingy, and it's only now that she realizes that deep down she had begrudged him her own feelings of inadequacy.

But in this moment their roles seemed to be reversed. He was the one who was openly having a hard time with the idea of separation. He wouldn't let go of her hand, and she could sense how dangerously close he was to blowing the whole thing off and potentially jeopardizing his job. And strangely enough, she didn't even have to try to take on the reassuring role. It came naturally. Just knowing how against his instincts it was to be away from her right now, was enough.

"It's not even a week," she told him as she squeezed his fingers, almost unable to believe the words coming out of her own mouth, as they were usually his. "It's nothing compared to what we've faced before. And I'm going to be _fine_."

She could tell by his face that he was anything but convinced. "I hate this," he mumbled, unable to keep eye contact. "It feels so wrong."

"I know," she offered, resting her free hand on his chest and scratching it affectionately with her nails. "I hate it, too. But it'll be okay. Just… just hold me for a minute?"

He obliged. For a moment the whole world seemed at peace as she felt herself being encircled by both his body and his love. She latched on to him, buried her nose in his shoulder and took in his comforting scent, but for the first time in forever she didn't tear up when they broke apart. He did; but she didn't.

She reached up to frame his face with her hands and gave a small smile before kissing him intensely. Even when he was upset he was still warm and solid beneath her. His lips were still soft and held the perfect amount of pressure. God, he had a stabilizing effect on her without even trying. She very seriously doubted he could say the same about her, and that stung more than his appending departure.

He looked at her with red-rimmed eyes when the kiss ended; his Adam's apple bobbed up and down a few times and his mouth opened but the words got stuck in his throat.

She smiled and ran her fingers along his cheek because she heard them anyway. "I love you, too. Can you please call me when you get there?"

He nodded, rubbed their noses together one last time and was gone.

Now, she waits.

His last day of training took longer than planned – what else is new? – and when he called earlier to tell her he suggested she try to get some sleep and he would see her first thing in the morning.

"Not happening," she answered simply. He put up a weak protest; weak because she could tell he already knew he was a goner. She had been surprisingly okay without him all week. She missed him, of course – every minute of every fucking day, it seemed – but she dutifully crossed out the days on her calendar, and it hadn't messed with her head the way it had in the weeks before the dollhouse.

But now the thought of having to wait even a few hours more is too much for her. She tries not to compare needing him to needing a fix, but the truth is that it feels frighteningly similar. Sometimes he feels like an addiction. She feels shaky when he's not around. Deprived of something essential.

The only difference is that with drugs she turns into a monster when she has them; with him, she turns into a monster when she doesn't.

It's almost one in the morning when the awaited knock at her door finally comes. She was deep in thought and the unexpected noise actually scares the shit out of her, but the fright she feels is instantly replaced with the kind of overwhelming yet simplistic joy that only he brings. She opens the door, smiles and waits patiently for him to step inside before nestling herself in his arms; but he's way ahead of her. He's lifted her off her feet with his hug even before the door falls shut behind him, walking them both towards the kitchen, her toes barely touching the surface of the floor while he presses repeated kisses against her neck and cheek.

When he sets her down it's her turn to take him by surprise. She fuses their lips together, pushing her tongue into his mouth and curling it around his own. They kiss hungrily for a few moments, her fingers messing up his hair while his grasp at her waist, holding fistfuls of her clothing. It's only when they release their impassioned hold on each other to come up for air that he leans his forehead against hers and whispers, "Hi."

She laughs breathily, her arms wrapping around his shoulders. "Hey."

They kiss again, deeply. "I missed you," he murmurs when they catch another break.

"Prove it," she counters easily, wondering how this can still all be so effortless after everything they've been through lately. She pushes one hand underneath his shirt and rakes her nails down his abdomen, giving him a coy smile. "Take me upstairs."

He licks his lips and she can see the desire in his eyes, but for the first time she sees a flicker of hesitation in him.

"Your mom…?" is all he says, and she breathes a sigh of relief that it's nothing more troubling.

"Out like a light, I promise," she assures him quickly. "Action, Cadet Toby. Take me upstairs to your space ship and have your way with me."

He cracks up but does as she asks. Before she knows it she's on her back on her bed; they're both half naked already and he's kissing his way down her body. They've been all over each other ever since she got home from the hospital. Not that they've ever had problems in that area before, but recently it's become more and more obvious to her that sex with him relieves a lot of her anxiety. While lying on the couch together after a hard day is equivalent to the soothing sensation of a warm bubble bath (but about ten times better), making love has the same effect as the infamous cookie no longer stowed away in her bag (but, again, about ten times better).

He builds up the tension between them as he sensually thrusts in and out of her, like he knows so well how. He's so good at this. He plays her body like a violin: a slow, steady bow and a fine, rich, gentle vibrato. Her hands are all over him – his back and his hips and even his ass as she urges him in deeper. Right before she hits her peak he slows down a bit, wanting to prolong the moment, and she drunkenly smiles up at him in gratitude. His brushes a kiss against her sweaty forehead in wordless response, and then they return to their earlier pace.

She gasps as she comes, feeling him let go seconds later. He stays inside her for another moment, they way he knows she likes it. It lets her enjoy his closeness a little longer, his beating heart against hers, the rock solid muscles of his stomach against her own. He sighs and presses one last lingering kiss against her lips, tender rather than heated now, before collapsing down next her, his arm flung across her waist, and for a little while all is silent.

She looks over at him when her pulse has slowed down and her breathing is easy once again, taking note of the fatigue in his eyes. Reflexively, she leans towards him to brush his hair away from his forehead.

"Tired?"

He seems surprised by the enquiry, but nods before crawling closer to her and drawing circles on her bare back with his pointer finger. "I should be asking you that question."

She rolls her eyes slightly. "You've asked me that on the phone every day this week. I told you, it's getting better."

He holds her gaze and asks quietly, "Just like that?"

She lowers her gaze and doesn't answer. He's so intuitive – too intuitive for his own good sometimes. She supposes it's a good quality to have when you're a cop, but she doesn't want to feel like she's the one he's interrogating.

She rolls on top of him, their naked bodies pressed together suggestively as she brushes a kiss to his chin. "This has helped."

A small smile crosses his lips, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes and she knows he isn't fooled. He doesn't call her out on it, though. Instead, he smooths her hair against her back and tells her she's beautiful.

She knows he can't bear to fight with her right now. Not after three weeks of not knowing if she was even still alive, and not after the mess their fighting had led to before all that. He's been letting a lot of things go lately – whether it was her inability to discuss the dollhouse, his correct assumption that she's holding back on -A's possible identity, or their latest disagreement over the best interest of his new partner on the force.

But another upside of sex is that it helps her set her mind straight. It helps her sort out what she isn't telling him for his own protection, and what she's keeping to herself because it works out better for _her_ that way. In this moment right now, looking into his concerned baby blue eyes, she knows she has to tell him. Not about the dollhouse – because she can't, not yet – but about the ways she has chosen to cope since she fought her way to freedom.

She's tucked into his side a few minutes later, feeling the calmest she's felt – drug free – since her return to civilization. She thinks she might actually be able to get some sleep tonight, and makes the uneasy decision to postpone their much-needed conversation to another time. All she wants right now is to lie here like this with him, and so she asks quietly, "Will you stay a while?"

Ever since the dollhouse her mother has made a habit of checking in on her before going to work in the morning. While she appreciates the sentiment and the concern that would have made her happier than a little kid on Christmas a few years ago, now she somewhat resents it because it means she and Toby can't get away with sleepovers anymore.

His answer is quick and easy. "Sure. I'll stay until you fall asleep, or until the sun rises. Whichever comes first."

It's only when she wakes bright and early the next morning, the covers wrapped around her figure where his body used to be, that she realizes it must have been the former.

* * *

A few days later, the weather is warm but not stifling hot and they decide to go on another picnic. She very much enjoyed their last one, only it ended on an uncomfortable note when he asked her why she wouldn't talk about what happened during her captivity. She's determined not to let that happen this time. She wants to include him in her life, and just as importantly, she wants _him_ to feel like she's including him in her life.

"I have to tell you something," she speaks up after they've had lunch and they're just lounging about, postponing going home and facing the real world.

He looks a little apprehensive, and while she can't blame him it also brings back so many insecurities that she's still working to get past. She knows full well that she's about to confess to something illegal, and she wonders: is she being unfair to him? Is this one of those things that he would prefer she didn't tell him because it forces him into a position where he feels he's always letting someone down? She knows he will protect her no matter what; she knows it's completely against every instinct he has to go against her. But is she selfish for even giving him the choice?

She takes a deep breath and throws herself in headfirst. "I need you to forget for a minute that you're a cop, okay?"

"Spencer…" He sighs and rubs her back. "Let me use my job to help you. That's why I got it in the first place."

She shakes her head no, feeling anguish settle in the pit of her stomach. "This isn't about that. I… I did something. Do you want to know or not?"

To his credit, he doesn't even blink. "Yes. I want to know."

So, she tells him. She tells him about stealing one of Aria's pills and hiding it away in her drawer until an argument with her mother prompted her to swallow it down the way she would welcome an old friend. She tells him about looking through the trash, her hand covered in dirt and filth while it continued to search for the substance it knew would bring temporary tranquility to the body it was attached to. She tells him how she eventually found the ideal solution: pot inside a cookie that she could take nibbles out of at random intervals each day, whenever she felt anxious or afraid or alone.

The words fall from her mouth in an effortless ramble and it's not till she finally chances a glance at him and that she realizes that she's avoided looking at him this whole time.

He looks pale, and mistakenly takes her momentary pause to mean she was done. He swallows and takes her hands, squeezing them supportively. "It's okay," he tells her. "It's okay. I'm glad you told me. I… we'll fix it, okay? Just give me the cookie, I'll get rid of it for you. And I think you should go to a meeting. But I'm so glad you told me, Spence. I'm so glad you're not shutting me out on this. Don't worry, okay?" His knuckles graze her cheek softly. "We'll get you back on track. I'll help you, I promise."

"Toby," she interrupts him quietly, unnerved by the torment in his eyes. "It's done already. I went to a meeting on my own. I ran into my former sober coach… Dean?" He nods, and she continues, "He drove me home, and… he helped me realize I was going down a dangerous path. I gave him the cookie and that was the end of it."

He's quiet for a long time. It clearly wasn't what he was expecting to hear, and she feels hurt and confused that he doesn't seem happier for her.

Finally, he forces a smile and says, "Okay. That's good, babe. That's really good."

She stares at him in disbelief, noting the lack of enthusiasm in his voice. "Then why do you look like I just ran over your puppy?"

"No!" He shakes his head urgently, and instantly he looks a little more like himself. "That's not… I didn't mean it like that. It's important to me that you're healthy. That's what's most important."

She holds his gaze. "But…?"

Again, he shakes his head, softer this time. "It's nothing. You did the right thing, I'm proud of you."

And suddenly, she's furious with him – because here she is, bearing her soul, making a conscious effort to communicate better… and he can't even be bothered to give her a straight answer.

"I hate when you lie to me," she tells him coldly, feeling like the biggest hypocrite on the planet for uttering those words. "It doesn't suit you."

"I'm not lying," he shoots back, and she can tell she's upset him. "I'm saying, it doesn't matter."

She holds his gaze, and a ray of understanding shifts between them. "It matters to me," she insists softly.

He shifts uncomfortably, and it's a long time before he speaks. "I just… I wish I knew about all this earlier. I wish you'd called me when you felt scared, or when you couldn't sleep, or…" He swallows and unclenches his fists. "I want to know what's going on with you, and I want to be the one to help you fix it. I know it's selfish and immature but it's the way I feel."

She reaches for his hand, staring down at it as she lets her fingers glide along his strong, muscular arm as she contemplates the way to phrase exactly what's going through her head. "I think it's a good thing that I fixed it myself," she tells him, trying to keep her voice gentle. "I've realized… I depend on you so much, Toby. I base way too much of my self-worth on you, and it's not fair to either of us. I needed to get myself out of this without you. I had to know I could."

"But I need to know what's going on in your life," he tells her, and she sees the woe in his eyes.

"I'm telling you, aren't I?" she says lightly, stilling holding his hand in her lap. When he doesn't respond, she goes on, "I know you want to fix everything for me and I love you for it, but it shouldn't always have to be you. I need to surround myself with other people who support me, and I think Dean might be able to be one of those people."

"I want to be your safe place to land," he says heartbreakingly.

"You are," she stands firm. "But you're not an addict. He is."

He's quiet as ever as he faces the truth. He's had to do that once before, she knows, when he had to step back and allow her parents to call the shots; to take her away to a rehab facility, away from him and away from her family and friends. She knows how hard it is for him to accept that there are things he can't help her with, or things that other people might be able to do better because it's their job or because they've had similar experiences.

"I still need you," she murmurs, feeling like it's one of the most honest things she's ever said. "I need you to be my boyfriend. My sweetheart, my lover. You're only one who I want to be those things to me. And you are. It's you, Toby." She holds his gaze, making sure he understands every part of what she's saying. "It's always been you."

She can tell her message is sinking in when she the urgency slowly seep out of his sky blue eyes. They return to their usual soothing state, and she can breathe easily again. She sees promise in his expression, and optimism, and – dare she say it? – hope. Hope for a better tomorrow.

He reaches for her, pulling her in between his legs so she can lean back against his chest. His arms encircle her waist and she feels him plant the tiniest of kisses against her neck.

"I love you," he whispers into her skin. "I know I've made you doubt that before, but... I really, really love you."

She turns her head and touches her forehead to his jaw, feeling tears prickle in her eyes. She undergoes guilt every time he says this now; and while she hates that something as beautiful and wonderful as those three words now spark such a negative sensation in her, she knows she has no one to blame for this but herself.

"I know," she whispers back. "When you're with me, I always know."

When she first saw daylight after three weeks in the dollhouse, she didn't know if she would ever feel true, lasting happiness again. She still doesn't. But, she thinks as she lies here in his arms, this will do as her soothing item even if she never wakes from her nightmare.

* * *

The inside of the Brew is especially crowded today, but she doesn't mind. She would have picked a table outside anyway. She's never particularly been an outdoor type person, but three weeks inside a confined room has made her look at the world completely differently. She enjoys the outdoors more now, more than she ever would have thought. She revels in the breeze in her hair, the birds chirping, the aroma of freshly fallen rain. In a way, the dollhouse has forced her to appreciate the little things in life.

She smiles to herself. Maybe she's turning into an optimist after all.

"I should've guessed you're the type to be early," she hears a teasing voice from behind her, and she turns in her chair to greet him with a smile.

"I'm an overachiever, what can I say?" she retorts good-naturedly.

Dean grins and gives her a friendly squeeze on the shoulder before taking a seat across from her. They make small talk for a few minutes, and she finds herself unwinding a little from a stressful day. She likes his sense of humor. There's no suggestiveness behind it, and that more than anything is extremely refreshing.

"I'm glad you finally took me up on my offer and called me," he tells her earnestly after a short lull in their conversation.

She smiles gratefully and replies, "Yeah, me too."

His eyes look her over slightly suspiciously, as if he's already assumed the worst. "How are you, Spencer?" he wants to know, all seriousness now, the twinkle in his eye that's present when he jokes suddenly missing in action.

She nods. "I'm okay. That's not why I called you." At his doubtful look she elaborates, "I called because I wanted you to meet someone."

Dean might have asked who, but she doesn't hear him. She's too distracted by another figure approaching them, and feels her mouth twist into a blissful smile. She rises to her feet just in time for a set of powerful arms to embrace her. He presses a whisper of a kiss into her hair before releasing her and turning, a little apprehensively, towards the man in the chair.

"Toby, this is Dean," she introduces them. "Dean… Toby."

A look of understanding crosses Dean's face as he holds out his hand towards her boyfriend respectfully. They shake, and Toby's shoulders seem to relax somewhat as he offers to get them all a coffee.

"No, I'll go," she says hurriedly, pressing a hand to his chest and pushing him down into a chair before he can protest. She smiles half-heartedly when he shoots her a look of slight panic. She knows that he thinks he's not good at socializing with people he doesn't know very well, so she turns to Dean.

"Talk to him."

She sneaks a glance at the two a few minutes later while she's still waiting in line. They seem to be holding up a dialogue pretty well, and Spencer finds she's relieved if not very surprised. Dean is easy to talk to, and Toby's someone who always gives people a fair chance. He was a little worried about this meet up, but she never really was.

Her heart tightens when she sees her boyfriend crack a smile at something Dean says. She hasn't seen him smile – _really_ smile – in a long time. It hits her with sudden force how her own struggles and her own misery weigh on him. He'll never be happy if she isn't, and that alone triggers a determination inside her to keep fighting. To keep searching for her happy ending, even if it takes her a lifetime to find it.

She shakes her head amusedly and prepares to place her order. There it is again, that damned optimism. She knows exactly who to blame for it.


End file.
